


For The Morning

by ifnotformariano



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Consent Issues, Disordered Eating, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Hurt Foggy Nelson, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Misunderstandings, Nightmares, POV Matt Murdock, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, Secret Identity, Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Uninformed Consent, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-11-27 11:34:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20947655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifnotformariano/pseuds/ifnotformariano
Summary: There was a hostage. Matt is the Man Without Fear, and Foggy has a baseball bat, so neither of them were backing down.At Matt and Foggy's arrival, the stakes changed and they paid the price. Foggy doesn't know Matt paid it alongside him. Matt is all too aware.





	For The Morning

**Author's Note:**

> [Original Prompt](https://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/1742.html?thread=2858190#cmt2858190)
> 
> all TWs in tags (+very, very brief mention of vomiting.)

Matt would've been in his office already if not for Karen. She'd struck up a conversation the moment he'd walked through the door, wet from the rain; she was a social creature like that.

So he was anxiously stirring sugar into his coffee while he wondered how to courteously exit a conversation. He politely nodded and made affirming noises to Karen while he was otherwise preoccupied with the stairs being climbed, the knob on the door being turned.

Foggy shut the door behind him when he entered.

"Hey, Matt." he took off his jacket, which dripped water on the floor, and he ran a hand through his sodden hair. He turned towards her and nodded. "Karen."

"Glad to see you back at the office." Karen smiled, all filled with nervous, careful energy as Matt murmured a _hello_ back, took Foggy's entrance as his cue, and rushed into his office with no milk in his coffee.

So maybe it wasn't the politest way he could've managed an exit. But it was effective.

"What's up with him?" Karen wondered aloud, blissfully unaware that Matt could hear her, very clearly, through the walls and over the rain.

"I don't really know," Foggy sighed, "Probably didn't sleep well. He never does."

"You don't look like you slept much either." Karen said.

"Do you blame me?"

"Not really."  
.  
.  
.  
"You're being selfish." Karen told him, a few days later. The rain had finally eased up, but it was still cold. Foggy was out on sandwich duty.

Matt was sitting at her desk, as they always did for lunch. The middle area between his and Foggy'd desk, and also Karen's territory, her ground.

Matt frowned and tilted up his head. "I— I don't— what do you mean?"

He knew exactly what she meant. He stuck his hands under the table, out of view, and wrung them together.

"I don't know what's going on with you," Karen continued, "But Foggy's supposed to be your best friend. Can't you get out of your head for once and be there for him?"

Matt quickly flexed his fingers and then played with the end of his tie. There was a stray thread. "Sorry."

"Tell that to Foggy."  
.  
.  
.  
Matt didn't apologize, but he did invite Foggy out for drinks. He was too cowardly to properly say sorry for any of it— for all of it. It was an excuse, was what it was. He didn't think that he could apologize as if he was a third party.

Despite the constance of it in his life, Matt didn't actually enjoy lying. And what was he supposed to say? _"Sorry for your trauma; I don't know what it's like, I'm sorry I wasn't there"?_ Matt wished he hadn't been. But then, he'd do anything to save Foggy. He'd do anything to save anyone. It was funny how everyone else was worth more than he was.

Besides that, he rambled too much, and Foggy knew him too well to not see right through him; to not see more than just what he was saying out loud.

So they went out to Josie's and talked about the weather. Both of them said they were fine and for once, Matt wasn't the only one lying.

"I've been drinking more lately." Matt said mildly, after making a comment about the cold and the upcoming winter.

"Some dance to remember," Foggy sang sombrely, "Some dance to forget."

He took a swig of his drink and then they struck up a conversation about which flowers were blooming this time of year.  
.  
.  
.  
Neither of them wanted to separate that night. Neither of them wanted to be alone. Neither of them wanted to be apart.

Matt couldn't recall if the need to hear Foggy's heartbeat had been this strong in the past, or if it was something new. Probably something old, reeling it's head after the ground they walked on together became tenuous. Of course, Matt was the only one in the world that knew that there'd been an earthquake.

They called a taxi from Josie's, and Foggy told the driver his address. Foggy slid into the backseat, pushing himself to the seat behind the driver, leaving room for Matt, who ducked in and shut the door behind him. Matt stared straightforward, trying to think of nothing at all.

Foggy was uneasy, but he didn't say anything either.

The taxi slowed to a stop. Foggy hesitated before leaving, so Matt hesitated telling the driver a new location to go to.

"You wanna come in?" Foggy finally asked.

Matt pried open the car door and then he followed Foggy in.

It was jarring, how much Foggy's apartment was the same. He'd been there only a month before, lounging on the couch, watching some dumb movie with Foggy.

It didn't feel the same. It felt like he was a stranger walking into someone else's childhood home. Except that he wasn't a stranger at all.

He felt disconnected. Out of place. Wrong. The one stain in a mansion of white.

"I'll take the couch." Foggy said, flopping himself onto the awful leather sofa before Matt could complain. He was already half-asleep, Matt could tell. Foggy was a tired drunk.

Matt didn't want to sleep in Foggy's bed, for more reasons than just courtesy. He curled up on the ottoman, resting himself on the arm of the leather couch that the ottoman resided beside. He curled up beside Foggy.

He wouldn't go to sleep. His city still needed him; he just didn't want to leave Foggy. And he didn't want to put on the mask. It encompassed bad memories.

... well, just the one, really.  
.  
.  
.  
His heartbeat was pounding.

Nails were stretching him apart. It was cursory warmth lined with saliva, an obligation, rushed and perfunctory and messy, but not inattentive. It was _good_, for a crime worse than murder. It was the worst kind of good and the worst kind of evil.

He didn't want it, but in any other circumstance, he would have. This was cruel. There was a moan that might've been a sob and a—

_"Matt."_

His eyes shot open, wild, and he breathed in staccato, each fiery note burning his lungs. Blinking quickly, his senses scrambled to comprehend his surroundings. He was terrified. His ribcage compressed him tight and let his breaths out as choppy and pathetic. _That_ was a sob.

Selfish.

Panic flooded his system, freezing coherency. His toes curled up tight and he kept his head low, all too aware of the tears dripping down his face. His hands gripped the armchair like an electric wire that would catch fire if he let go.

He couldn't breathe.

"Matt." Foggy repeated. He sounded exhausted. Tired. It was probably late. _And here I am_, Matt thought. _Forcing him awake. Being a _burden_. Useless. Screw up._

_I can't breathe right_. Matt swallowed down as much air as he possibly could in one breath. _I can't breathe at all. _He furiously tried to stop crying, biting his lip as hard as he could to try to keep the sobs in and shutting his eyes tightly in a futile attempt to block the tears. Powerless.

"F—" he tried, his gasp cutting him off, chest heaving. His teeth tried to keep his bottom lip locked and pinned, but the breaths kept gushing out like a waterfall pushing through stones. His throat hurt from the pressure and he couldn't tell if his lip was bleeding or if it was just tears.

"Matt." Foggy said placatingly.

"F-f—" he drowned in air.

Foggy knew better than to touch him. For once, Matt was glad that he'd had the displeasure of seeing him like this before.

He shouldn't have gone to sleep.

He shouldn't have gone to sleep with Foggy beside him.

_"Fuck."_ Matt managed. Foggy gave a sad attempt at a laugh.

"I thought you were going somewhere else with that, buddy." he commented with a fatigued, stale tone.

Despite himself, Matt barked out a sharp bark of hysterical laughter, another tear running down the length of his face.

By the time Matt had calmed down, Foggy was just about ready to go to sleep again. Matt licked his lips, dry and sensitive.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Deep breaths.

"Did I wake you?" Matt asked, before they could both drift off. He could apologize for that, at least.

"No." Foggy replied. "I was already awake."

Matt paused. "You too?"

"Yeah." Foggy said. "Pretty much same as you."

_You have no idea._

Foggy continued, "I was surprised I didn't wake you up. I guess I know why you didn't, now."

"I was a bit busy listening to— hm."

"To what?"

_You_, Matt thought but did not dare to say. "You know how it is," he said instead. "I've got lots of reasons for nightmares."

"Yeah. Yeah, you do."  
.  
.  
.  
Foggy's state of mind did not improve and Matt's had never been in a position to flourish in the first place. All in all, life became stagnant.  
.  
.  
.  
"Is it a guy thing?" Karen asked, digging into her salad. Foggy had taken the day off.

"What do you mean?" Matt replied. He didn't have a lunch. He didn't really eat unless Foggy or Karen essentially shoved nutrition down his throat. Or until he started to sway on his feet. Matt sipped his coffee.

"You and I both know Foggy didn't come out as unscathed as he likes to think he did." She'd been at the hospital with Foggy. Matt'd been, but not for long. Foggy had spent the entire time insisting that he didn't need to be there, and _no_, he wasn't in shock. He was fine.

It was funny how life turned the tables like that.

Karen took a deep breath. "He was raped."

Matt knew that. He tried his best not to think about it.

Karen carried on, stabbing her plastic fork through a piece of lettuce. "I can't understand why you aren't doing more. I just keep coming back to what you'd be doing if it'd been me."

Matt clenched his jaw, biting his tongue between his teeth. His stomach churned the milk in his coffee.

"You talk to Foggy less. And I bet you don't leave your office at all if I'm not there to be the buffer." Karen mused, rightfully so. Being drunk together was different than working together. "I don't get why you're treating him like you are. I bet you'd be all over being my white knight if it'd been me."

"Thank God it wasn't you." Matt choked out without really thinking about it. He set down his coffee because he didn't want to puncture the paper cup with his nails. And because he didn't want to drop it.

"So it _is_ a guy thing." Karen said triumphantly, rising out of her seat a little, seat screeching back. "That is so sexist—"

"Excuse me, Karen." Matt said, pushing back his chair and heading to the bathroom, feeling sick. "I'll be back in a second."  
.  
.  
.  
He didn't vomit, but he did gag.  
.  
.  
.  
"Is the moon out?" Matt asked. It was coming out earlier, these days. Winter, and all that.

They were drunk. It made them more appreciative.

"The moon is shining, buddy." Foggy informed him. "It's a beautiful night to feel sad."  
.  
.  
.  
"Drinks?"

"Drinks."  
.  
.  
.  
Karen was concerned that they were drinking too much.

It was better than the alternative.  
.  
.  
.  
"It was awful." Foggy said, swinging his feet back and forth on the bench.

"The weather?"

Foggy laughed, and scuffed his feet into the snow. "No. Sucking him off."

Matt froze. He carefully didn't turn his head. His senses narrowed down to Foggy and the quiet smile of snowflakes lightly falling onto the grass, the ground, and their eyelashes, a drastic contrast to the storm in Matt's head.

They were alone. Matt knew this hour was dark, regardless of the season. Foggy's heart beat quicker.

"I know— well, Karen keeps treating me like a rape victim. She thinks she's being subtle."

Matt's mouth moved automatically. "She always means well."

Foggy nodded vigorously. "Thing is— I don't feel like a rape victim. I mean, I didn't consent to a sexual act, so it was rape, right? He— he, uh, he fucked my face."

Foggy curled his hands into tension-ridden fists, trying to quell the tears rising, hot and fast, to his eyes. Matt tried a similar tactic. But with nails.

"There was a gun to head and everything." He breathed hard, swallowed fast. "Not to mine, or the Mask's. But coercion's not consent, end of story. I know that. Even if—"

Foggy hesitated. Matt could feel the vibrations of Foggy's shaking, trembling.

"What?" Matt prompted.

"I don't like him, okay?" Foggy sighed. "I don't. But I'd never wish anything like this on anyone... I don't— I don't like him, Matt."

Foggy's leg started tapping. "I was so sure of my opinion of him and yet— I don't know. This is fucked up, okay? But I felt like I knew him."

Matt couldn't move.

"He was just so— so familiar." Foggy heaved. "I don't know, Matt. He— I don't feel like a rape victim."

Matt was very, very still. "No?"

"I have nightmares about it, you know that." Foggy told him. "It was probably the singlemost horrible, disgusting thing that's ever happened to me. Kidnapping would have been one thing. This... is another."

"I gave the Devil of Hell's Kitchen a blowjob." Foggy announced to the empty park with a grand projection of his arms. They dropped back onto his lap and he gripped the knees of his pants, scrunching up the fabric. "A good one. I— he put his dick in my mouth and I was into it. I grabbed his hips and sunk in deeper. If I hadn't—"

Foggy shut himself off.

Matt was not a man of self-control. He would've gone too far even without Foggy's initiation. There was no _if I hadn't_... Matt bit the inside of his lip and stayed silent.

Foggy went on. "And now I have panic attacks and nightmares and I think I hate myself."

Matt's breath had long since stopped.

"I don't feel like a rape victim." Foggy repeated, hunching into himself.

There was salt in the air. Foggy's breathing became laboured. "Matt, I feel like a rapist."  
.  
.  
.  
Matt drank alone that night, after drinks with Foggy. The hangover never really ended.

It was better than the alternative.  
.  
.  
.  
He should tell Foggy.

Before, it was Matt's own freakish secret. He heard people having sex, he heard people whispering about the blind guy on campus, he heard everyone's arguments with their girlfriends and boyfriends.

He smelled when girls were on their period (and subsequently would have extra chocolate bars on hand, for no particular reason. He was uncomfortable, so were they, but he could at least make one of them feel better), he smelled everyone's one night stands and he smelled who'd been smoking pot a few days ago.

He knew which cooks didn't wash their hands, who tried to give him the sandwiches with mold, and he could hear who spat in _the fat guy's drink_ because _it was funny_. He could taste it better too, but he'd wrangle the Starbucks away from Foggy anyways.

It was his own secret to keep. He even did some good with it, like keep a hellish father away from a kid that he didn't have the right to call his daughter.

It was going well. Honest.

His senses got overwhelming once in a while, sure, but it was well made up for by everything else he'd become capable of. Saving people was worth having to hear his neighbours have adventurous sex two flights down.

And then Matt followed a would-be rapist, planning on making a quick stop to punch him in the face, get the girl to safety and then go on with patrol. Unfortunately, it happened that he wasn't the only one that had heard the girl scream. Matt had stood in black with his escrima sticks, while _someone_ stood tall with their baseball bat.

Neither of them counted on the guy having a gun. Both of them were willing to get shot in the face, which was why neither of them got the option. And how Foggy ended up on his knees.

_I wanna hear all of the sounds the Devil makes before he comes. I wanna see the Devil lose control. I want to see you lose._

And that was when his secret suddenly no longer contained just him.

He'd thought about it before. About how angry would Foggy be, knowing that Matt had kept a secret such as _I can hear you lying, I've heard you having sex, and also, by the way, I beat people up as a vigilante, nightly. _Somehow, that had become the easy part.

How fast would Foggy leave, knowing that Matt was his rapist, fucking Foggy's mouth like he was a _thing? _How quickly would Foggy go, knowing that Matt had let him suffer alone, blaming himself instead of Matt?

Talking was the alternative, so Matt drank some more.

Having a crush on Foggy all these years had become even more minuscule than it had been before.  
.  
.  
.  
He ended up in Foggy's apartment the next night, despite his doubts and concerns. Matt was not a man of self control.

The worst part was that he used to dream about _it_ happening. He dreamt about it, still, which made everything worse. The shame and guilty pleasure was old, but the pure horror was new. And the guilt had become renewed; it'd been regenerated as something bigger and worse and clawing.

"Fogs." Matt murmured, guilty already.

"Matty?" Foggy murmured right back.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

Foggy's heart didn't beat _lie_ and Matt was almost disappointed.  
.  
.  
.  
They woke up with twin nightmares, more alike than Foggy knew.

Matt excused himself to the bathroom while Foggy cried on the couch.

Matt slid down the wall of Foggy's bathroom, holding his face in his hands, one hand over his mouth. He was waiting for it to go down. He was crying.

He felt guilty and deranged. He felt like a rapist.  
.  
.  
.  
Karen dropped some brochures off at his desk. _A Guide For Friends and Family of Sexual Violence Survivors_, in Braille. _Male Victims of Rape_. And another, also in Braille. _From Victim to Survivor_.

Matt wasn't sure what to make of the last one. He wasn't a victim, and he'd been a survivor all his life; a brochure wasn't going to make a difference.  
.  
.  
.  
"What are you doing?"

"Hugging you." Foggy said. "I miss you."

"I've been here. I haven't left."

"I feel like I haven't seen you in a while."

_Probably would be better that way, _Matt thought. Out loud, he asked, "Why?"

"You would know." Foggy said, and he fell asleep.  
.  
.  
.  
Matt and Foggy worked, and then they got drunk, and then they worked.

Karen worried. They mutually ignored her, too lost in their constant headaches and indifference. The office got quiet. They didn't really have clients. They scraped their feet on the ground to move forward, living off of savings. Whatever didn't go to Nelson & Murdock went to booze.  
.  
.  
.  
"You seem sadder than usual." Foggy said. They were both on his bed, laying side by side overtop of the covers. Neither of them touched.

"Than usual?" Matt asked.

"You're always sad. I've never actually seen you happy."

"I'm happy when I'm with you." Matt told him, truthfully.

"Not lately." Foggy argued. "You're sad. I don't know why."

"Neither do I."

"Liar." Foggy told him. Matt made a noncommittal sound. Foggy was right, but Matt couldn't make himself tell him.

"There's bigger things than what I'm feeling." Matt said, quickly interjecting himself (before Foggy could) with, "Like you."

"I'm not that fat." Foggy replied, indignant.

"You're beautiful." Matt said drowsily.

"Don't you dare fall asleep on me, Murdock. Future Me won't remember to continue this conversation in the morning."  
.  
.  
.  
He didn't.  
.  
.  
.  
"Hey, I feel like I'm forgetting something important."

"I can't recall anything."

"Huh. Weird. Probably just left the oven on or something, then. No biggie."  
.  
.  
.  
Curiousity got the better of him. He skimmed his fingers over the text.

_We urge you not to go through this alone. Professionals in the medical, legal and advocacy community are ready to start you in your path to healing._

Matt scoffed, and tossed the brochure away.  
.  
.  
.  
"Drinks."

It wasn't a question anymore.  
.  
.  
.  
They didn't wind up at Foggy's place, this time. They wound up at Matt's, stumbling up all of the stairs— the elevator was out of order— and then they both fumbled in Matt's pockets in a sorry attempt to find his apartment key.

They ended up using Foggy's spare.

The two marched into Matt's place, plunking themselves onto his couch, side by side, knees knocking knees. They had a delightful buzz in their heads, and everything seemed lighter. Happier. Foreign.

They sat like that, in comfortable silence, for a while. It was nice to have even a moment of peace; even nicer when the company was as good as Foggy. The quiet stretched on.

And then Matt started to laugh. Foggy followed, letting out a bright chuckle.

Foggy leaned his head into the crook of Matt's neck, his breath ghosting over Matt's skin. Inhibitions, and all that, Matt would muse later, if he remembered to. Foggy lifted up his head, leaning his forehead against Matt's.

Inhale.

Exhale.

He nervously drew closer.

And then Matt let Foggy kiss him. It was tender, and slow. Tenuous, like the ground they walked on. They were inebriated and incapable of a truly sweet kiss, but despite the mess of it, kissing like they hadn't meant to— and Matt was fairly sure they hadn't, but it felt _right_— the feeling was luscious. Like a secret he wasn't supposed to know.

Still. Matt couldn't make himself move. He had _stop _repeating over and over again in his head. _Don't do this_.

He could feel the second that Foggy's resolve started to shudder and fade away, nervous at the lack of reciprocation, and that was when Matt found it in himself to push further.

He growled, ignoring all of his warning bells. One hand possessively raked up the skin of Foggy's back, while the other held onto the nape of Foggy's neck to make sure he stayed.

Foggy's resolve restarted, and his hands snaked their way to Matt's belt, drunk hands fumbling at it.

"Mm," Matt said between long kisses, "What are you doing?"

They drank each other in like vodka.

"Don't know." Foggy replied, smearing his lips against Matt's. It was too sloppy to be romantic. "Just wanna get to your dick."

Everything went to a halt. Foggy managed to get the belt half off before Matt's brain caught up with what was going on, panic slow to seep in between the blurry edges. Memory shot up it's ugly head, even as it became clear that Foggy had no intention to perform oral— for precisely the same reason that Matt was so unwilling to receive it.

There was a whine that he hoped sounded more sexual than it did terrified. He aggressively cupped Foggy's face in his hands, using his bodyweight to flip their positions so that Matt was heavy on top.

He hoped his rushed madness and terror could be mistaken for excitement and enthusiasm. He dragged himself down, quickly undoing Foggy's shirt buttons as he licked and kissed and marked each piece of skin that he came across.

His hands shook. It wasn't anticipation.

"Matty— slow down—"

Instantly, Matt drew back. "God, I'm so sorry. What did I do? Did I trigger you? I should've asked, I'm sorry, Foggy, I—"

Foggy snorted. "Did you read Karen's brochures?"

Matt, sat back and legs still entangled in Foggy's, went a little hot in the face. "Just some."

Curiousity got him to read them all. He'd rolled his eyes at every sentence and then ran his fingers over the next line.

"I can tell." Foggy laughed. "Thanks for caring."

"I always care."

"I can't always tell." Foggy replied. Matt's eyes drifted somewhere east of Foggy. Sightless, sure, but expressive all the same.

"For the record," Foggy said, "All I need for you is to not pull my hair. And while I'm sure it's beautiful, I'm not sucking your dick either."

"I'm good." Matt said quickly. "My dick is fine."

"Your dick is _sad_." Foggy corrected. ""My dick is fine?" _That's_ your endorsement of your dick? Your dick is really feeling neglected right now."

"There's an easy solution there." Matt replied, "But I'd rather focus on you."

"Is that that Catholic self-denial of pleasure thing?"

"There is no Catholic self-denial of pleasure thing," Matt responded, wishing his _Catholic self-denial thing_ was stronger."I just wanna see what your cock tastes like."

It sounded wrong. Everything seemed _wrong_ with a stronger overcoat of _right_.

He swiftly added, "If that's okay with you."

Foggy groaned. "Hells yes, that's okay with me."

Matt smirked, and went for Foggy's belt, opening his mouth to say—

"Oh, just one more thing." Foggy interrupted.

"Hm?"

"Keep the dirty talk to a minimum?" Foggy requested.

Matt's jaw tensed. "My lips are sealed."

"Thanks." Foggy said, resettling into the couch. "Anything you don't want me to do?"

"Don't treat me like glass." Matt said, and went to work. He was a man of very little self control.  
.  
.  
.  
He wasn't sure what his expectations were in the first place, when he lifted his head up, tongue tasting like Foggy, waiting for a direction of some kind. Praise, disgust, a request. He didn't know which he would have preferred. Whereas Foggy had been quite vocal not a minute ago, he'd gone silent.

It took him an embarrassing minute to realize that Foggy was asleep, that his heartbeat had slowed. He'd always gotten tired easily after drinks.

Matt quietly climbed off of Foggy's frame, went to the bathroom and cleaned himself up. He went to sleep in his own bed, that night.

It was for the best. The alarm bells finally went to a rest.  
.  
.  
.  
Foggy apologized and Matt, sober and smarter (and more hungover) rejected the offer of a hand job.

And then they drank some more.  
.  
.  
.  
They weren't dating. Matt was in love with him, but they weren't dating.

It'd been a fault. It shouldn't have happened. And if it did, it should have been before the gun was aimed at the head of a would-be rape victim who cried the whole way through the fucked up happenings between Matt and Foggy. Or, it should have happened after Matt told Foggy about it all. Whenever that was.

Probably shouldn't have ever happened at all.

He'd wanted the drunken night, sure, but he was a rapist. Foggy's, more specifically.

And Foggy still didn't know.  
.  
.  
.  
Matt pulled back from him. It was perfect— and it was also something that should never happen again. He shouldn't have let it happen the first time, or the last time, and he shouldn't have let it go as far as it had this time; one more kiss.

"Matt?" Foggy asked, confused. They were sober, for once.

"I— I, uh—" this would be a great time to tell him. Any time before blowing him would have been a good time, really. "I don't think that— well, I just think. Maybe— maybe we should keep what happened to... to a one time deal."

Foggy stilled. And then leaned back, away from Matt, and crossed his arms. "Right."

He simmered and Matt waited.

"Because you're straight?" Foggy asked, tension pulled as many times possible around every molecule in the room.

Matt quickly shook his head. "No, no that's not it—"

"What are you then?"

"That's not really important." Matt said, jaw tensed as he clenched his hands into fists. "I love you, I do—"

"As a friend?" Foggy interrupted, getting more upset the more Matt spoke. Guilt wouldn't stop growing. "Sure didn't seem like—"

"I love you." Matt said firmly. It was the one thing he'd been sure of, for all these years. "But that night— that night..."

He trailed off. Foggy filled in the blank. "Was a mistake?"

A beautiful, perfect mistake that Matt wished he could make over and over again.

"Yes."  
.  
.  
.  
"I didn't think it was possible." Karen mused, unwrapping her muffin.

"Hm?"

"You talk to Foggy even less than you did before." Karen narrated narrowing her eyes at him. "Before _what_, I don't know."

"It's complicated." Matt gritted out.

"It always is." Karen sighed, taking a bite of her blueberry muffin and pushing another towards Matt. "That one's yours."

"I'm not hungry."

"You never are."  
.  
.  
.  
Well, at least he wasn't drinking anymore.  
.  
.  
.  
That was a lie. He had beers at home.  
.  
.  
.  
Never mind about having those beers.  
.  
.  
.  
"Oh my god," Karen said, "What happened to your face?"

"Fell." Matt replied, and he wasn't lying. He got drunk, and then he fell.  
.  
.  
.  
He still punched people in the face, when he ran out of things to drink and he didn't feel like he was going to fall over or start crying when he put the mask on.

It wasn't that he needed to drink, really, it was just that it was there. And he couldn't think of why he shouldn't. And it reminded him of Foggy.  
.  
.  
.  
Life went on. They didn't drink together anymore and didn't talk much either, but they were amicable.

The firm had things to focus on other than each other. They got their Nelson & Murdock placard and had a quiet, somewhat awkward celebration; Karen had confiscated all alcohol in the office so they celebrated sober. It was strange.

"I'm sorry, what?" she was on the phone. Both Matt and Foggy halted.

"When?" Karen asked, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.  
.  
.  
.  
Elena Cardenas was dead.

Matt was calm.  
.  
.  
.  
"A woman is dead, and for what?" Matt asked, standing, _calm_, face covered by the mask. "Just to— lure me into some kind of trap?"

"You are here." was the reply. "Are you not?"

He was.

.  
.  
.  
Matt could smell his own blood being dragged against the frigid concrete. He could probably be called suicidal.

He jumped out of a window.  
.  
.  
.  
The moment he made it to his apartment, he stumbled, crashed, and fell, mind too exhausted and numbed with pain to support his body.

He thought he could hear a heartbeat.

Matt had a crawling feeling in his gut, but he was too far gone unconscious to do anything about it. Any and all future problems were for the mourning.

**Author's Note:**

> instagram/tumblr: @ifnotfornatasha
> 
> yes mom I'm okay


End file.
